If The Boy Have Not

Foul Whisperings Are Abroad

O Most Delicate Fiend! Who Is't Can Read A Woman? Is There More?

Lay On, Mcduff, And Be Damned He Who First Cries, 'hold, Enough!

All Pity Choked With Custom Of Fell Deeds.

Tut, Man, One Fire Burns Out Another's Burning; One Pain Is Less'ned By Another's Anguish; Turn Giddy, And Be Holp By Backward Turning; One Desperate Grief Cures With Another's Languish.